An Anatoly Gentleman in Dusith
by Alphard
Summary: Written for the 31days livejournal community. Three short drabbles on a common thread, in which Vincent is sent to Dusith for a number of years. Implied VincentSophia.
1. A School of Morality

_Note:_

_31days is a livejournal fic community where each day in August (and now September) has a theme, and the fic written for a particular theme is to be uploaded on that day. I was doing this with a friend, but I got waylaid by art school and she got waylaid by packing for university, so in the end we didn't get through the month._

An Anatoly Gentleman in Dusith_ is actually three separate fics on a single thread. They do not form a continuous story, and have been uploaded in order of when they were written. In case there's anything you don't want to see, I've written a short summary to head each 'chapter'. The title of each fic is the stipulated theme, and is not my own._

_I personally feel that Vincent would be very good for Sophia. I think she deserves better than Alex, who couldn't love her, probably made her very miserable, and then up and died on her._

_For ayatsujik, with love._

_In this fic Vincent ponders the merits, or lack thereof, of courtly love._

_

* * *

_**A School of Morality**  
Finished 31 July 2005

Vincent has always held that there are rules to be adhered to, when one is courting. Always to be a gentleman, never to appear when – or where – one isn't wanted, while making it very clear that one is deliberately being considerate in doing this. It would be a waste, after all, if the lady in question did not notice.

And, very importantly, to pine meanwhile.

Vincent is proving to be very good at this last one. Sophia's loaned the _Urbanus_ to Dusith's mercantile guilds as a gesture of friendliness until they can afford their own cargo ships, and a captain belongs with his ship. Vincent makes frequent trips between Anatoly and Dusith, staying in Dusith between flights. He visits Sophia whenever he can, and writes every two weeks when he can't, accosting messenger Vanship pilots to bring his letters to the Queen.

At first Sophia wrote mostly of Anatoly, and state affairs. Vincent spent some time wondering how impertinent he was allowed to be, and eventually wrote that he was not worthy of getting state reports directly from the Queen; perhaps Sophia Forrester, and not the Queen of Anatoly, should be answering his letters.

Vincent writes of how different things are in Dusith, how puzzled they are by him and his Anatoly chivalry. They ask, politely, whether all Anatoly men are like him, with an expression of morbid fascination. Dusith is a practical country; the old, unfriendly climate – even more unfriendly than Anatoly's – demanded it. Vincent Arthai, with his delicate, roundabout tactics, makes no sense to them.

Vincent sends flowers to Sophia on his brief flight stops in Anatoly, and tries not to think about his bouquets being picked apart for poisoned needles on the way in. On Alex's death anniversary he sends lilies by Vanship from Dusith, and politely does not ask the questions he really wants answered: has it been long enough, is it all right now, is there space in your heart for someone else? For example, me?

But it would be tactless, against the rules, wrong. So Vincent pines quietly instead, and continues writing his letters. No pressure, no pushing, and plenty of devotion.

After about three years of this, though, he decides that enough is enough. Being a ship captain is not all it's cracked up to be. He's changed his crew a couple of times; they have workers' unions that insist on letting them go home. Captains, however, are apparently supposed to take care of themselves. It doesn't seem fair to Vincent, who is beginning to be vaguely worried that Sophia means to keep him in Dusith for the rest of his life.

_Dear Sophia,_ he finally writes, carefully, knowing that he is deserting his pride but trying nonetheless to salvage what he can. _I do not presume to question your actions, but if Dusith is still unable to afford the new cargo ships I would advise you to investigate for corruption._

Vincent pauses, frowns, and then continues. _I consider it deeply unfair that my crewmen have more rights than their captain. Please look into the matter. I know that a captain is married to his ship, but I cherish the hope that this is a figurative statement. Yours, sincerely, Vincent._

He had hoped for greater subtlety than that. But he's learnt pragmatism from the Dusith, and when dignity is competing with the prospect of dying unloved in a foreign land, Vincent reckons he can live with a little less dignity.

And, two weeks later, Vincent receives official notice to return to Anatoly.

Sophia is not a foolish person; she knows that this trip home will mean more than what it seems, and she knows how painful it is to be the victim of futile hope. Vincent smiles as he settles the paperwork. Perhaps he stands a chance.

Perhaps this Dusith frankness has something going for it, after all.


	2. Anno Mirabilis

_Sophia, on Vincent after his first year in Dusith._

I understand the Latin of the title is incorrect. That's what was on the list, though.

* * *

**Anno Mirabilis**  
Finished 05 August 2005

_Dear Sophia,_

I think that I may have managed to start a small revolution. Ten months ago the Dusith thought I was a fool in uniform. The current situation now is… somewhat different. Suffice it to say that I'm very sorry if I've caused you any inconvenience regarding 'that captain', which I understand is what I'm referred to as these days.

I am trying to spend as little time as possible on the ground. There are a number of people wanting to make my acquaintance. Not all of them are female, which I am not sure is an entirely positive thing.

I hope that all is well with you and Anatoly. I will be back for a few hours during my next run, in a week's time. I would like very much to see you.

Yours, sincerely,  
Vincent

Sophia smiles. Reading Vincent's letters is always terribly relaxing.

She should just give him the title of cultural ambassador to Dusith, Sophia reflects. He's not been there a year yet and already everybody in Dusith recognises him. Vincent mystifies the ladies and embarrasses the men. The latter, in particular, seem to have difficulty believing that he actually _is_ male, at least until they discover the hard way that Vincent has that nancy dress uniform because he's earned it.

Sophia suspects that what Vincent has now are prospective disciples; after all, he can charm women entirely by accident, which must certainly seem like a useful skill to learn.

The current situation is different indeed. Sophia has reliable information from other contacts in Dusith that Vincent is practically a household name, to be used in statements like 'Why can't you be more like that Anatoly captain?' She receives the odd outraged letter from Dusith officials complaining about his unhealthy influence, and she smiles and writes that she could of course recall Vincent Arthai, but that would also mean recalling the _Urbanus,_ leaving Dusith without its largest – and free – cargo carrier. Alternatively, the Dusith could send some of their own people to Anatoly, which would make it even, and perhaps the appropriate term should be 'cultural exchange'.

It's strangely exhilarating to realise that this is the sort of thing that occupies their minds, these days; that it's gone beyond trying to make sure that people have enough to eat, clean water to drink, and a roof over their heads. Unhealthy influence! Once upon a time that would have meant plague.

They are living in strange times indeed, Sophia thinks. There are wonders everywhere she looks. Certainly if she looks in the direction of Dusith, where Vincent is absently working his magic.

She adds the letter to her growing collection: one letter every two weeks amounts to a fair number over ten months. Perhaps she will write her reply later, in the evening; there are other things that require her attention.

Sophia sighs, picks up her pen, and returns to work. 


	3. Night and Horses and the Desert

_Vincent, on urban myths concerning himself._

* * *

**I Am Known To Night and Horses and the Desert**  
Finished 19 August 2005

Midway into his second year in Dusith, Vincent figured that he was very probably going to go down in history as some kind of folk hero. For one thing, the ten-year-old son of one of the Dusith merchants had wandered up to him during a function wearing an expression of intense curiosity and asked if it was true that he had really fought desert demons for three days and two nights before emerging triumphant.

Vincent had replied, cheerfully, that if he had, he certainly didn't remember it.

And the boy had frowned, and countered with: "But I was told that you ran off with the beautiful daughter of the desert demon king on a white charger and – " before his father clapped one hand over his mouth.

"No, it's all right, I'd like to hear the rest of it."

The man had blinked a few times in faint panic. "It would not be polite."

It'd finally fallen to one of his bridge officers, who spent a bit more time in the city than Vincent did, to give him the rest of the story, and then only after a lot of surreptitious nudging by the rest of the crew. It had taken three minutes of hurried and embarrassed whispering, and when he was done Vincent had gone a curious shade of pink, to general amusement.

There were _other_ stories like that, apparently.

You really knew you'd become part of popular culture, Vincent reflected, when people started making up inventive stories about your sex life. He didn't know where they got them from. It was common knowledge that he'd been on a battleship for half his life; where was he supposed to have found the time to do all the scintillating stuff they seemed to think he'd done?

And only two years ago the Dusith had been puzzled and then faintly shocked by him. It was as though after decades – possibly centuries – of pragmatic repression, they were finally making up for their lack of imagination and weren't quite sure where to stop.

He only hoped Sophia wouldn't get to hear about it. She'd already written once to ask after his 'disciples', and observed that for some reason he seemed to be the only captain fascinating enough to attract all this interest in Anatoly.

They weren't disciples, Vincent had written in reply, equally placidly. He'd only been talking to them, and he had no idea why some of them had appeared to be taking notes.

It wasn't his fault all the men here had practically never heard of chivalry, except that it was a system followed by what had once been the enemy and hence automatically foolish. All Vincent had done was be his usual self, and suddenly there were women in love with him, some of them were already married, and then all hell had broken loose.

That had been a while back. The story had evidently grown somewhat since.

It wasn't as though he'd even set foot in the desert before, let alone ridden across it on a white charger. He'd flown over it quite a bit, but evidently that wasn't nearly romantic enough.

The funny part was that nobody seemed to believe the one story that really was true: that he'd challenged the _Silvana_ and survived. He hadn't won, of course, but where Alex was concerned it was probably noteworthy enough that he was still alive.

People told stories about Alex Rowe and the _Silvana_, too, although of a different sort. Vincent personally felt it was slightly unfair that Alex got all the impressive horror stories, while all _he_ had was the stuff of cheap romance. He would have complained to Sophia, but she would probably have said the same thing as when he'd protested about the disciples, which was a single sentence: _Don't pretend that you're not enjoying it._

He'd sent back: _Only because it amuses you._ But he'd received no reply, and so he'd quietly changed the subject in the next letter.

_Well, Dusith? How do you like your Anatoly captain now? Defeated by his queen. And my white charger is kept here at her command._

But he was patient, he could wait, and meanwhile Dusith seemed to be doing its best to keep him interested, if only by sheer force of egotism.

He rather suspected that at some point there would be _books._


End file.
